“A month ago—from Europe, I mean; mother is there yet. America looks wonderfully good to me—I have been away from it the greater part of the last two years, you know. When I came home to Dalton I found the name of Mr. Joseph Westbrook on every lip. You seem to be a very important personage, sir,” she laughed.
“A little gilding goes a long way, sometimes,” he replied, with a bitter smile.
“But there must have been something to gild!” she challenged. “Mr. Westbrook, for the last two weeks I have been at The Maples—have you been down to Skinner Valley lately?” she asked, with peculiar abruptness.
“Not for some months.”
“There are some changes in the village.”
“Yes?”
“That poor little deformed storekeeper has bought the Rotalick house and has turned it into the dearest little convalescents’ home imaginable.”
“Is that so?” murmured Westbrook, meeting Miss Barrington’s gaze with a face that was innocently noncommittal. “Pedler Jim always was kind to the boys.”
“So it would seem; still—someone must have helped him in this,” she suggested, her eyes on his again.
“Do you think so? Possibly! I am wondering, Miss Barrington, if we might not find it cooler over there by the window. Will you allow me to escort you?”